


Elvish Singing

by StarSpray



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 1920s, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22728250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: An elf walks into a bar, meets an old friend, and almost gets arrested. Par for the course in 1920s NYC, really.
Relationships: Daeron & Maglor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Elvish Singing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SWG Crackuary bingo challenge for the "Characters at the Club" prompt.

Maglor ducked his head as he stepped into the room, passing through a curtain imbued with the smell of cigar smoke into a low room hazy with the stuff and full of people decked out in fine clothes and glittering jewels and occasionally feathers, glittering against a backdrop of dark paneled wood and wine-red carpets. It was the Roaring Twenties, and places like this high end New York speakeasy had become the decade's embodiment. Maglor adjusted the cuffs of his jacket as he made his way between flappers and dandies to the bar, breathing in sweet perfumes and strong colognes and the sharper scent of alcohol. He was lucky to be running in the social circles that allowed him access to bars like this, where he could get a decent drink and sit down to enjoy it without worrying too much about a police raid.

He retreated with a glass of dark red wine to a shadowed corner and sank into a comfortable chair with a sigh. Nearby a small jazz band was playing crooning music that lent itself not so much to dancing as to swaying, which was what the handful of couples were doing in a small open space that could only generously be called a dance floor.

After a time the music died down, and another musician appeared from somewhere to take the place of the pianist. Maglor hardly noticed until he began to play—and to sing. The song itself was not particularly special—it was a popular love song that Maglor himself had performed a dozen times in the past week or so—but Maglor had not heard another elven voice in more years than he could count, let alone _this_ voice. He sat, spell struck, along with the rest of the bar until the song was over. The singer then struck up a livelier tune that had the swaying couples actually dancing, but conversation was still slow to return to the rest of the room. Maglor sat and watched and listened, nursing his wine and wishing suddenly for a much older vintage.

The pianist looked up and caught Maglor's eye after a short while. He grinned and winked, and when at length his set was done and he was able to tear himself away from his admirers at the bar, he brought his drink over to Maglor's table. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Of course," said Maglor, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Well met, Daeron. I had no idea you had made your way to America."

Daeron smiled. "It's Darren, lately. I've been here since before the Colonies split from Britain," he said. "I have been watching the shaping of the music in this country—it's quite wonderful. How long have you been here, Maglor?"

They had slipped into an ancient mode of Sindarin; speaking it felt like puling on a well-worn and much-loved coat. The music was merry and loud, now, and there was little fear of anyone overhearing them—or caring what language they spoke even if they did. "I still use Matthew," Maglor said. "I came just after the Great War ended, but I have been farther north until now, in Boston."

Daeron hummed and sipped at his Scotch. "I am glad to have missed that."

"You must have seen your own share of battle here," Maglor pointed out.

"Most of this continent is wilderness, still. It wasn't hard to avoid all that. I'm rather good at getting lost." Daeron flashed a grin again as Maglor raised his glass in a toast. That was the difference between them—Maglor hid among people, flitting from city to city to lose himself in ever-changing crowds, and when Daeron wanted to hide he vanished into the forest. No wonder he had wanted to come to America. "What have you been doing with yourself, then?"

Maglor flashed a grin. "Vaudeville."

"No!" Daeron laughed, throwing his head back. "Really?"

"It's never boring," said Maglor. "And you? I never imagined you spending your days playing bars."

"Only occasionally," said Daeron. "I also give piano lessons."

The conversation meandered on as they exchanged news (some of which would be history to other ears). Daeron invited Maglor to join him in a performance—they had both had just enough to drink to feel loose and merry and a little reckless—for it had been a very long time since the greatest singers of the Eldar had sung together—but before Maglor could decide one way or the other a commotion was heard on the other side of the entrance.

Even the finer bars were still illegal—and the Dry Agents had finally decided to crack down on this one. The lights went out briefly as the door burst open. Someone hit the piano to send up a shower of discordant notes. Women screamed and men yelled, and Maglor heard at least one glass break. He was on his feet in an instant, but Daeron grabbed his hand and shook his head. He gestured to a secret door that had been opened in the back of the bar, but it had only been of use to a few people in that part of the room. Maglor swallowed a sigh and resigned himself to arrest, and to leaving New York earlier than he had planned.

But then Daeron raised his voice and began to sing. It was a strange thing to do in a room full of shouting and arrests and even a few guns being waved about—and for a few seconds Maglor could only stare, baffled, as Daeron tilted his head back and closed his eyes to sing a _lullaby_. But after a few seconds more he felt his limbs start to sag and his eyelids to droop, and he could hear the power woven through the music. Daeron gripped his hand tighter, and Maglor roused himself. It was a very old lullaby, to a tune older than the Moon, and as a hush fell over the room Maglor also started to sing, adding his own power to the words, until bartenders and patrons and lawmen alike were sinking gently to the floor or slumping in their chairs or over tables, taken by gentle dreams of starlight on clear waters.

Once they were all asleep, the Elves were able to simply stroll out of the place, pausing briefly at the bar for Daeron to take a few bills as his payment for the evening's entertainment.

"Do you have to do that often?" Maglor asked once they were out on the street. It was late, but not so late that there was not still plenty going on. He let Daeron choose which direction they went.

"Not really," said Daeron. "Well, I used that trick quite often in the first half of last century, but hardly at all since. I don't often go to speakeasies that get targeted by the law. But of course the night you appear would be the night that one gets raided. I thought the Doom of the Noldor was long over and done with."

"I was there a week ago," Maglor replied, ignoring the last remark. It was such an old jab as to have become a habitual joke.

"Were you really?"

"I saw at least one councilmen there, and a prosecutor."

"I thought you had not been in New York that long," said Daeron. "Yet you know the councilmen and lawyers on sight?"

"I make a point of knowing who to avoid," Maglor replied. "I suppose it should have been a bit telling that none were there tonight."

"Perhaps. I am glad you knew the song, by the way. It has been a long time since I've heard proper Elvish singing, besides my own."

"Too bad it had to be a song to put the audience to sleep."

"We can find another juice joint to perform in if you like. I know half a dozen that will be open until the small hours."

Maglor laughed. "Maybe another night," he said.

They came to the park and passed beneath the trees. There was a small lake, and the breeze coming off of it was cool and smelled more of pine and grass than of the soot and dirt and smoke of the city. Daeron pulled a small wooden flute out of his pocket and began to play. The melody was another ancient one out of Beleriand, and many songs had been written to its tune. Maglor made one up on the spot, and from there they passed the night in song, the last and greatest minstrels of the Eldar left in the world. The stars glittered brightly overhead—brighter than usual in such a big city—and brightest of all rose Eärendil, just before the sunrise painted the skies pink and orange beyond the wide grey waters of the Atlantic.


End file.
